Page 21 of Enticing the Enforcer
A man.
Lord.
Around me, the girls react to the bruise–grimaces, sympathetic noises, then back to their conversations, unfazed, because this is normal to them. They’re used to bodies like this, to Greek-god physiques being revealed like no big deal.
But me? I can’t stop staring. My throat goes dry.
“Ingrid.”
I blink, snapped out of my trance. And of course the first thing I do is look straight at Jefferson’s face and down to his small grin, the all-knowing, cocky little curve of his mouth, that says he caught every second of me looking. Heat licks up the back of my neck before I tear my gaze away.
Madison stands in the doorway, one brow arched. “Can you help me with something? In the other room?”
Grateful for the escape, I follow her down the hall to my office. The space is calmer, softer, with a full wall of windows revealing the city’s glitter into the night, a plush chair by the shelves where I sometimes settle in to write lyrics. My first guitar, the one I got when I was eight, sits on a stand next to the chair.
“What’s going on?” I ask, though I already know. She’s been trying to get me alone since the plane landed.
She doesn’t waste time. “These people are nice, Ing, but what are we doing? Whoarethey? Why did you essentially invite a group of strangers not only to a hockey game, but to your house?”
I exhale, running a hand down my arm. I get it. This isn’t me. I keep my circle tight. Family, management, fellow performers. Not strangers from a college town. Not girls I barely met. Not hockey players that slide into my DMs.
But it doesn’t feel wrong.
“I don’t know,” I admit, my eyes skating over the wall behind her. Gold records. Awards. Framed magazine covers. All the markers of success that used to feel like proof of worth. Now they just feel… hollow. Empty. “They’re different. Fun and I could use a little of that right now.”
“Ohhhhhh.” Her eyes widen. “I know what this is about.”
My pulse spikes. She knows. She knows about Jefferson. About me sneaking out. Shit. Marv willkillme. “It’s not what it?—”
“This is about Jake,” she interrupts.
Jake.
The name slams into me like a brick.
“No.” I straighten, collecting myself, sharpening my voice. “This has nothing to do with Jake.”
“You’re rebounding,” she insists.
“With three girls from a college town back East?” I snort, trying to laugh it off.
“It’s an escape,” she says simply. “No cameras. No questions about what happened between you two. And zero chance of running into him like you would with your other friends.”
She’s not wrong. But she’s not right, either.
Because yes, I’m running. Yes, I’m hiding. But it’s not from Jake.
It’s toward something. Maybe.
“For once in my life I want to just do something spontaneous that isn’t about anyone else but me.” I look at my friend. “Is that so bad?”
“No, babe.” She reaches for me and pulls me into a hug. “It’s totally normal to want that. I get it. But you don’t know these people. I just want you to be careful.”
What she doesn’t say lingers between us, a heavy weight I’ve been carrying for a long time. People like me don’t get to be normal. No matter how much we want it.
8
Jefferson
